


Things That Never Happened: Werewolf Apocalypse

by wheel_pen



Series: Daisy [47]
Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Naughtiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:09:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU of the Daisy series. The Lockwoods are werewolves, and werewolves hunt vampires. This could be a problem. “Well, now that the guilt train has arrived, I better leave the station. I got a body to smoke. Later.” This story is unfinished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things That Never Happened: Werewolf Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Daisy, my original character, moved to Mystic Falls about a year ago. There is something special about her.
> 
> 2\. This series begins with the first season of the TV show and completely diverges about halfway through the first season. Facts revealed later on the show might not make it into this series.
> 
> 3\. Underage warning: This series may contain human or human-like teenagers, in high school, in sexual situations.
> 
> 4\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate being able to play in this universe.

_Part I_

            “Should we—can we help them somehow?” Elena asked breathlessly beside me.

            I gave her a look that said, _And what exactly would you do?_ “I think this is one of those times when the best course of action is cowering behind the car,” I replied, as we cowered behind the car.

            Snarls, shouts, curses, and groans filled the night air on the other side of the vehicle. Elena winced with every one. I listened closely, trying to gather as much information as I could. “Can they stop it?” Elena asked me in a fearful tone.

            She didn’t really think I _knew_ , of course, she just wanted some reassurance from the only other person around. “Well, it’s two against one,” I reasoned, “so the odds are in their favor.” My answer wasn’t very comforting. At that moment a body bounced off the car hood near our heads and dropped heavily to the pavement. If Stefan had been a normal human, his spine would’ve been shattered. But since he was, after all, a vampire, he would probably be fine.

            Elena ran to attend to him and I took the opportunity to peek over the hood of the car. Damon wasn’t doing so well, either, kneeling on the ground with a series of huge gashes down his chest, claw marks from the beast that loomed above him. Another swipe of the creature’s paw could pierce his heart or sever his head, and that would be the end. Stefan was trying to get to his feet behind me, but even in a vampire a twisted spine needs a little time to heal.

            But the creature was getting confused now. It was young and inexperienced—it didn’t fully understand the instincts raging inside it. Frightening things were happening to it, too fast, too fast. What should it do now?

            Damon’s eyes blazed with rage. Seeing the beast’s hesitation his own murderous instincts kicked in and he leaped at the creature’s throat, ripping it out with fangs designed for just such a purpose. The blood spilled all over the road, oozing from the wound as the beast staggered, then collapsed. Damon spit out a mouthful of blood in disgust.

            “Werewolves taste terrible,” he declared.

            “Is it—dead?” Elena asked hesitantly. She seemed equally afraid of the hairy creature on the ground and the blood-covered one standing over it.

            “Let’s take its head to be sure,” Damon suggested gamely, but when he bent down he stumbled woozily and I hurried to catch him.

            “Why don’t you lean over here,” I suggested, walking him towards the dented car that Stefan was also resting against. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

            Seeing the boys more or less incapacitated for the time being, Elena took a breath, steeled herself, and walked closer to the body. “What are we going to do with this… thing?” she wanted to know, through gritted teeth.

            I gave it some thought. “First we need to make sure it’s really dead,” I decided. “Werewolves have strong recuperative powers.”

            “You really want to cut its head off?” To her credit Elena looked like she would give it a try—but she was also really, _really_ hoping I would say no.

            “I don’t think that will be necessary,” I judged. I slid one of my silver bracelets off my wrist—you never knew when those were going to be useful—and shoved it into the gaping neck wound. The flesh immediately began to steam and hiss as it was seared by the thin metal circle. Damon and Stefan made noises of revulsion at the smell, which was far more pungent to their heightened senses. “That should prevent the injury from healing,” I stated, wiping my hand off in the nearby grass.

            Trying so hard to be calm and tough ironically made Elena more skittish. “Oh my G-d, it’s changing!” she suddenly yelped, hopping away farther than was necessary.

            A description of the transformation would make it seem like a cheap special effect, but somehow in real life it was as smooth and natural as a cloud passing across the face of the moon. One minute there was a creature covered in long, dark, coarse hair on the ground, its shape reminiscent of an oversized greyhound with a wolf’s snout and ears; the next minute it was a teenage boy, pale and naked, with his bloody neck bent at an unnatural angle.

            “It’s Peyton Lockwood,” I observed, processing this new information rapidly.

            “Tyler’s cousin?” Elena confirmed in confusion.

            “I always thought he smelled funny,” Damon quipped from the hood of the car. He looked pale and bloody himself, barely upright against the car. Stefan didn’t seem so bad physically, but the fight with the werewolf had shaken him—or maybe it was the knowledge that he and Elena could have been so easily killed by it.

            “Thanks,” he told his brother suddenly, “for coming so fast.”

            Damon shook off the gratitude. “If anyone’s gonna put you in the ground permanently, it’s gonna be me,” he said, as he always did. Only this time it was punctuated by his eyes rolling back in his head as he collapsed completely onto the car hood.

            I helped Stefan maneuver him into the back seat of the car. “Take them back to their place,” I told Elena. “I’ll get the body out of the road—we can figure out how to dispose of it later.” Both Elena and Stefan looked at me with slightly startled expressions. “Or we could leave it here for everyone to find in the morning, thus touching off a massive hunt for the killer,” I added.

            They saw my point. “I’ll help you,” Stefan offered gallantly.

            “Help Damon,” I suggested instead. There was no way Elena would be able to get him out of the car on her own. “I’ll meet you guys at home.” He nodded reluctantly and got in the car.

 

            When I returned to the Salvatore house a couple hours later, the boys seemed to have recovered somewhat. Stefan was on his feet, while Damon was complaining vigorously from a reclining position on the couch. “I am _starving_!” he snapped, which I assumed was a repeat of previous statements. “I need some _food_!” A towel was draped across his chest, soaked through with blood; it didn’t seem fresh, though, so I assumed the healing process had begun.

            Stefan handed him a mug while Elena looked on with a mixture of concern and exasperation. “Here, drink this.”

            “Oh, fresh-squeezed squirrel, great,” Damon noted acidly, after sniffing the contents. “That’ll really hit the spot.” His disdain didn’t stop him from drinking it, though.

            “Stefan, you should really sit down for a while,” Elena pressed.

            “I’m okay,” he tried to tell her. His hand was wrapped tightly in bandages and he favored it as though it bothered him. The most telling detail about their conditions, however, was that no one noticed me enter the house until I was practically standing in the middle of the living room.

            “Daisy!” Damon greeted with relief. I didn’t bother hoping that he’d been worried about me. “Come over here and give me some blood!”

            Elena made a noise of disgust. “How can you talk to her like that?” she defended unnecessarily. “I’m sure she has other things to do than let you _gnaw_ on her.”

            His eyes narrowed and I feared his response. “You’ll do just as well,” Damon snarled. “Come closer, Pixie Stix.”

            Elena seemed more insulted than threatened by the prone vampire and Stefan placed himself between them with a warning, “Damon!”

            I joined the fray, calmly sitting down on the edge of the couch, and Damon’s attention immediately shifted. I lifted the towel slightly and frowned at the raw red gashes in his chest, which were deep and jagged. He grabbed my wrist eagerly but I didn’t think it was such a good idea to feed him right now—my blood could have unpredictable effects on him. We both knew he couldn’t force me, especially not in his current condition, so he settled for holding my hand and whining. “Unnhhh, Daisy, Elena s—ks as a nurse and Stefan won’t feed me anything but squirrel! Where’ve you _beeeennnnn_?”

            “Is he always like this when he gets hurt?” I asked Stefan dryly.

            He rolled his eyes. “Yes. Always. Ever since we were children.”

            “You changed your clothes,” Elena observed suspiciously.

            “They had blood on them,” I responded, indicating the garbage bag I’d carried in with me. “You should change yours, too. Anything that’s had vampire or werewolf blood on it needs to be collected. We’ll clean out the car later.”

            Stefan retrieved the clothes he and Damon had been wearing during the battle. “What are you going to do with them?” Elena asked.

            “We’ll have to destroy them,” I told her. I left Damon’s couch—which started him whining again—and looked over the shelves of books around us, searching for a particular volume.

            “The fire?” Stefan suggested, indicating the lit fireplace. It wasn’t a cool night but Damon was no doubt having trouble keeping his body temperature level with the blood loss.

            “No,” I corrected him quickly. I pulled a large, old book down from a shelf and cracked it open, returning to Damon’s side.

            “You’re getting dust on me,” he groused petulantly.

            “I’ll give you a bath later,” I promised distractedly, which shut him up momentarily. “Werewolves have a very keen sense of smell,” I told them, skimming the book, “especially for their own kind, or vampires, their natural enemies. They’d smell the blood in the smoke and be drawn straight here.” I glanced up at Damon with a smirk. “Burned vampire blood probably smells like barbecue to them.”

            He made a face at me but responded sensibly, “The medical waste incinerator at the hospital has a scrubber on it.”

            Stefan frowned at him. “How do you know that?”

            “Do you really wanna know?” Damon asked, assuming the answer was _no_. It was.

            “That should work,” I agreed.

            “You think there’s more… werewolves than just this one?” Elena asked.

            I guess someone had to ask, but we all stared at her anyway. “Duh,” said Damon, meanly.

            “Let’s sit down over here,” Stefan redirected, pulling her closer to the fire.

            “Well, it’s true that werewolves usually hunt in packs,” I allowed, though I didn’t think Elena knew that. “I think it was just an accident that this one was off by himself. We’re lucky the rest didn’t show up.”

            “Yeah, I feel lucky,” Damon replied flatly. He waved his empty mug in the air. “Waiter! Can I get a refill on the forest critter smoothie?”

            “Can you say _please_ , maybe?” Stefan grumbled, taking the cup away.

            Damon snorted. “Next you’ll want a tip.”

            “There are two main kinds of werewolves,” I explained, flipping through the book. “One kind is propagated through a virus spread by their saliva. Someone gets bitten, and then they turn into a werewolf themselves. Usually these people are unable to control their transformations, which can be triggered by emotional states and certain meteorological events.”

            “It’s not a full moon,” Stefan pointed out dryly, returning with Damon’s cup. “Maybe he was just stressed out.”

            Damon snatched the drink from his brother. “I saved your a-s, the least you could do is get me a jogger,” he muttered unappreciatively.

            “Stefan was bitten,” Elena blurted suddenly, and he reflexively looked at his bandaged hand.

            “He’s not going to turn into a werewolf,” I assured her, as Stefan took his place by her side again.

            “’Cause he’s _dead_ ,” Damon remarked flippantly. Stefan put his arm around Elena’s shoulders and kissed her temple gently.

            “And also because I think we’re dealing with the second kind,” I went on smoothly, taking Damon’s hand before he got jealous of the other two. “The kind where the condition is passed down genetically.”

            “The Lockwoods?” Stefan reasoned, with some surprise.

            I nodded slowly. “It makes sense. The family only moved here during the Civil War.” The others looked at me as if that _didn’t_ make sense. “During that time this town had a vampire problem,” I reminded them. “If the town leaders did some research, they might have realized that werewolves would be far more effective at hunting vampires than humans were. They could have encouraged a family of them to settle in the area and become invested in the town. Werewolves tend to be quite protective of their territory.”

            “A Lockwood has always been the mayor of Mystic Falls,” Elena observed.

            “Sad that that’s a sufficient bribe,” Damon sniffed sarcastically.

            “Oh, probably killing vampires is its own reward,” I told him.

            Stefan was shaking his head, however. “I don’t remember anything about werewolves,” he said, referring to their earlier years in Mystic Falls. For once Damon did not offer a disagreement, but he was busy scraping the cup out with his finger and licking the blood off.

            “If I were the town leaders,” I began thoughtfully, “I’d keep the werewolves a secret. The ordinary townsfolk might not see much difference between them and vampires.”

            “No need to be _insulting_ ,” Damon sneered.

            “It seems a safe assumption that Mayor Lockwood and Tyler are werewolves, too, and possibly other members of the family,” I went on. “I doubt their abilities have been needed for generations, so they might be rusty, inexperienced. But they _will_ have the town leaders behind them.” I tried to imagine how this latest twist would play out, but I didn’t have enough information yet. “I would’ve deployed the werewolves the moment I suspected vampires had returned,” I admitted, considering why this hadn’t been done. “And I would’ve encouraged them to have a lot more offspring. I’ll have to check the local genealogy records, see who might also be a problem.”

            “If we meet a werewolf, it can identify us as vampires,” Stefan began slowly, “but will it remember who we are when it’s in human form again?”

            I had a feeling he already knew the answer to that. “Yes, I believe so. So if you ever meet another werewolf—“

            “We have to kill it,” he finished soberly.

            I nodded. “Before it can tell anyone about you.”

            “Tyler already doesn’t like you,” Elena reminded Stefan with concern. “Do you think he already knows that—“

            “In human form they shouldn’t be any better at detecting vampires than anyone else,” I assured her, glancing at a random page in the book for authenticity.

            “Which means, not very good at all,” Damon put in, clearly meaning it as a put down.

            “I assume your necklace is silver,” I said to Elena, ignoring Damon’s remark. She instinctively touched the vervain-bearing pendant. “It should be useful against werewolves as well as vampires. The silver reacts with compounds in their cells to burn them, and it also prevents wounds from healing that otherwise would.”

            “How intelligent are they?” Stefan asked. I appreciated his focus, especially since Damon was getting antsy with no more blood to drink. “In werewolf form, are they like wild animals who might attack just anyone?” I started to shake my head. “Elena could’ve gotten hurt tonight,” he added tightly. The information was unnecessary but he couldn’t seem to help saying it.

            “Uh, that’s ‘cause she was with _you_ ,” Damon reminded him bluntly.

            “They’d have no reason to attack a human alone,” I assessed. “But they don’t seem to care too much about collateral damage.” I had a feeling Stefan would be brooding over that for a while.

            “Sounds like we better start smelting some silver bullets,” Damon went on, sounding not-displeased at the prospect.

            “I think the Sheriff will notice if you start carrying a gun around,” Elena responded tartly, clutching Stefan’s hand in a show of support.

            “Anything silver should have an effect on them,” I replied, turning a few more pages in the book. If they actually looked in it they would start to wonder where I _really_ got most of my information. “A silver knife wouldn’t be a bad thing to carry around.”

            “Unless you’re at the airport,” Damon quipped.

            “A werewolf and a vampire walk onto a transatlantic flight,” I shot back, as if beginning a joke.

            “If the punchline’s about how bad airline food is…” he warned.

            While we were cracking wise, Stefan and Elena were arguing quietly. “I want to be able to help you!” she told him, gazing up at him earnestly.

            “I don’t want you to get hurt,” he told her softly. “I don’t want you to get involved in—“

            “I _am_ involved,” she replied, reaffirming her commitment to him.

            They were so sweet together. Of course, some people didn’t like _sweet_.

            “What’d you do with the body?” Damon wanted to know, drawing their attention.

            “Oh, I put it in the underground chamber of the old Morgan vault, since we were near the cemetery,” I replied off-hand. “Should be fine there until we can get rid of it.”

            Stefan and Elena were now looking at me curiously, which was never a good sign. “How did you manage to move him—it?” Elena finally asked, trying to be dispassionate about it.

            “Or get the vault open?” added Stefan more practically.

            “Tarp and crowbar, respectively,” I replied. “I don’t really want to know why Damon carries those in his trunk.”

            “Oh my G-d, you drove the ‘Vette?” Damon exclaimed in a horrified tone. “Is it okay? Did you remember which pedal was the brake this time?”

            His attempt at distraction had failed to persuade Stefan and Elena to be satisfied with my explanation. “Have you moved many bodies before?” Stefan asked. With Damon it would have been a joke, but he was completely serious. When his eyes flickered towards his brother I realized he was wondering if I had ever helped Damon clean up after a feed.

            “Honestly, guys, the hardest part about moving a body is _not_ the physical demands,” I claimed. It was the details—trying to figure out what needed to be cleaned up and accounted for and what could be ignored, how to confuse the trail you were inevitably leaving, remembering what modern forensic science was capable of—

            “Oh, Daisy, I’m so sorry!” Elena said suddenly, hugging me. I blinked in confusion. “It must have been awful! Knowing it was… Peyton under there, and…”

            Damon barely covered his smirk in time, knowing that wasn’t _quite_ what I’d been getting at. It was probably better that Elena _think_ it was, though. “It’s okay,” I told her, in that way that suggested it kind of wasn’t. “What’s important is that we stay focused on what we need to do. And we need to destroy the body before it’s discovered.”

            “Medical waste incinerator?” Stefan suggested, going back to the earlier idea.

            I nodded. “Are there any pig farms in the area?” I asked alternatively. “Pigs can chew through almost anything. Or alligators.” I was serious—no need to attract suspicion by hitting the hospital all the time—but Damon snickered at the imagery. “I used to live in Florida, you know, and I had this really annoying boyfriend who was kind of a whiner…” I told him pointedly.

            “Speaking of which,” Damon replied without missing a beat, “are you gonna feed me now?” He made the last part as pathetic as possible.

            “I don’t know what it will do to you,” I warned him, despite how odd that statement might seem to the others.

            “It’ll shut me up,” Damon promised.  
            “Well _that’s_ something,” Stefan commented dryly.

            I sighed and Damon knew he’d won. He started to sit up more, then winced and froze, eyes shut for a long moment. When he opened then again he decided to stay where he was. I knew he would eventually heal on his own, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t truly injured—and he certainly wasn’t _used_ to being injured. I wasn’t used to it, either.

            I looked back over my shoulder at Stefan and Elena. “Would you guys mind…?” I asked, a bit sheepishly. Stefan understood immediately what I was getting at—the act of biting could be a very intimate one among consenting parties. And Elena had no desire to see anyone bitten, consenting or not.

            They popped up quickly. “Let’s go to the kitchen…” Stefan began to suggest.

            “…and look at your hand,” Elena finished with concern. “The light’s better.” I thought Damon might send a parting shot after them, but he was too busy staring at my wrist and trying not to drool.

            Once we were alone I said to him in a firm tone, “Only a little, okay? I don’t know if it will help that much.”

            “I always feel better after drinking your blood,” he reminded me impatiently.

            I held my wrist over his mouth. “Okay. Here you go.”

            He grabbed my arm eagerly, pulling it down to his teeth and piercing the thin flesh easily. I didn’t even really notice the pain anymore—instead I had learned to appreciate the intensity of the physical connection, the way his lips felt moving over my flesh, the way his eyes rolled back and his body shook like he was experiencing the best high ever.

            I pulled away sooner than he wanted and he moaned in protest. But I didn’t want him to overdose—if that was possible—or hurt himself more with the spasms of pleasure. Quickly I wrapped a thick bandage around my wrist to disguise the bite that was already healing as I watched.

            His eyes rolled around behind fluttering eyelids for a few more moments as I watched with some concern. Finally he opened them fully and I was relieved to again see the spark that had dulled with his injury. He smirked mischievously. “Second helping?” he asked hopefully.

            “No,” I told him firmly. I started to pull away the bloody towel covering his chest.

            “Ow!” He seemed serious.

            “Sorry, I think it’s kind of—sticking,” I told him apologetically.

            “Just rip it off,” he ordered, gritting his teeth. I did as he asked and heard a _crack_ as the frame of the couch he gripped snapped under his hand.

            “Sorry,” I repeated unhappily.

            “’S okay,” he assured me, trying to relax as the pain receded. “Stefan picked this couch.”

            “Wow,” I commented.

            “Not really a surprise, he’s pretty domestic,” Damon replied. “I remember the swatches—“

            I made a slight noise of protest. “Your _injuries_ ,” I clarified.

            “Oh.” He opened his eyes and looked down at his chest. “Wow.” All that remained of the deep claw marks were some faint red streaks. He started to stand immediately.

            “Easy there,” I suggested, sitting him back down on the couch. “I don’t think you’re quite ready for the marathon yet.”

            He disagreed but was willing to stay on the couch if it meant he could grab me and start making out, enlivened by his brief brush with incapacitation. “Fighting werewolves must be a big turn-on, huh?” I asked, trying to win back an inch or two of personal space.

            “ _You’re_ a big turn-on,” he countered, nuzzling my neck. I just smiled and rolled my eyes a little, trying to enjoy myself despite his poor timing. “Are you okay?” he whispered suddenly into my ear.

            “Well, I’m about to fall off the couch, and my hair is kind of caught under your arm,” I admitted, since he’d asked.

            He readjusted us to fix both of those problems, but that wasn’t what he meant. “With the werewolves,” he repeated, still speaking in an unusually low tone. “Being doglike.”

            My smile broadened as I realized his point—and that he was trying to keep Stefan from overhearing. It was… sweet. I cuddled up closer to him. “No, I’m okay,” I assured him. “They don’t really look like dogs to me.”

            He blinked at me. “But they _are_ dogs,” he pointed out bluntly. “They’re giant supernatural killer dogs.”

            “Well thanks for your reassurance,” I said dryly, “but they’re not dogs, they’re werewolves.”

            “What kind of a phobia _is_ this?” he wanted to know, somehow disappointed. Perhaps he was looking forward to comforting me. _After_ I had healed him, of course. Priorities.

            “Would you rather I was too terrified to do anything?” I asked him sarcastically. I leaned down and murmured right into his ear. “Too terrified to help you out?”

            His eyebrows shot up at that, then dropped down as he considered what I meant. I pulled away with an ambiguous smile and picked up the book again. “Let’s see what else it says in here about werewolves, shall we?” I suggested in a scholarly tone.

            “Which letter of the supernatural creatures alphabet will _you_ be under?” he shot back, his tone sarcastic enough that Stefan would think he was just teasing me. I knew he was still puzzling over my ‘help’ remark, though—he could work on a hint like that for weeks.

 

_Part II_

            We should have known better than to walk home at night after the party, I suppose, but it was our habit on nice evenings. Damon and I always had good conversations on our walks home, and I hated to take a siege mentality just because of a new threat in town.

            On the other hand, it was called a ‘threat’ for a reason.

            We saw the creature on the road ahead at the same time and froze. “S—t,” Damon muttered. I clutched his arm and he looked at me and nodded, understanding my reminder that it could hear us. He started to reach for his cell phone, slowly. “I could call—“

            “One to the left,” I interrupted, noticing a second creature step out of the woods. I turned to keep my eye on that one.

            “S—t,” Damon repeated, with more vehemence. He and Stefan had barely been a match for _one_ werewolf—though it had caught them by surprise that time, and since then we’d been finding out all we could about how to defeat them.

            “One to the right,” Damon added. “And, yeah, one behind us.” Four werewolves, stalking towards us from all directions. It was almost funny now, at least in Damon’s dark worldview. “I wonder if they’ve seen _300_?”

            We stood back to back, one hand reaching back to touch the other’s hip as we slowly turned in a circle, trying to keep an eye on all the werewolves as they closed in on us. There was a certain exhilarating rush about the situation, potentially deadly though it was, as I scrambled to come up with the best possible solution. Or any solution that didn’t end with us as kibble, really.

            “Walk away,” Damon advised me. They probably wouldn’t follow me, or at least not very far. “Go. Now.” But I stood my ground, squeezing his hand to indicate he was only wasting his breath if he repeated himself. He tensed as the werewolves stopped within a few feet of us, ready to attack them if they showed the slightest hint of attacking _us_.

            But they didn’t make a move. “They’re confused,” I said in a low, calm voice as we continued to rotate. “We’ve just come from the Grill. There are a lot of people there, and a lot of different scents mixed in with our own.”

            “Is confused good?” Damon asked. It was a valid question. I was afraid he took _confused_ to mean he could fight them more easily, though, when _I_ hoped to get out of this peacefully.

            “Mayor Lockwood,” I identified, nodding at the beast currently in front of me. “Tyler Lockwood. Bailey Lockwood.” Tyler’s younger brother. “Mackenzie Lockwood.” Sister of Tyler’s cousin Peyton, who had been killed at Damon and Stefan’s hands. “Talk to them as if they were the people you recognized.”

            “Mayor,” Damon said brightly, coming around to the lead beast. “Love the new plantings downtown. Did your wife have a hand in those? The color scheme is very tasteful.” The werewolf growled at him but didn’t move. “Tyler!” he went on, facing the next creature. “Too bad about the game last weekend. You guys had some great plays, though. Let me know if you want some tips on hazing Stefan.” The creatures were still sniffing us, still trying to make up their minds. The longer they waited, the less likely an attack seemed to me. “Hey, Bailey, don’t think we’ve ever met. You’re in, what, eighth grade? Guess you don’t have to worry about being the last to start shaving, huh?” I rolled my eyes as we circled around to the last beast again, trying not to be distracted by what Damon might say. “Mackenzie, right? I’ve seen you around. You know, my girlfriend and I have an open relationship, so if you ever—“

            I jabbed him in the kidney with my elbow. “You know who we are,” I told the werewolves calmly, looking directly at each one. “We’re not who you’re looking for.”

            After a moment, the creatures seemed to agree. The lead werewolf let out a whine and jerked his head, then turned and ran back into the woods with the others quickly following.

            “Holy s—t,” Damon breathed, nearly collapsing with relief. “That was fun. Let’s play ring-around-the-rosy with werewolves _every_ night.”

            I shushed him, not knowing if they were still nearby, and we hurried the rest of the way home in paranoid silence. Our moods soured with every step as we both went over the encounter.

            “Your small talk s—ks,” I told him, once we’d slammed the door shut behind us. I was a little irritable, angry at myself for not having thought about the werewolves patrolling the area at night. No wonder Tyler had been missing from school a lot lately—he was working nights.

            “Well sorry,” Damon shot back, going straight to the sideboard for a drink. “It was difficult circumstances, okay? And next time I tell you to leave, f-----g _leave_ ,” he added, not bothering to drink from a glass.

            It struck me suddenly how nervous, even scared, Damon had just been, and not just for himself. It was an emotion I rarely thought of ascribing to him, and the fact that part of it was on my behalf made me toss aside my annoyance. I crossed the room quickly and wrapped my arms tightly around him.

            He misinterpreted the gesture. “It’s okay,” he told me, in the most reassuring tone he could manage on short notice. It still sounded vaguely exasperated. “They’re gone, we’re safe here.” His lips brushed my forehead. “They wouldn’t have hurt you anyway, if you had, you know, _left_ when I told you to,” he couldn’t resist adding, rubbing my back.

            “If I’d left, they would’ve hurt _you_ ,” I pointed out, staring up at him, and I could see his mind snap into analytical mode.

            “You gonna explain that any further?” he wanted to know.

            “Mmm,” I replied noncommittally.

            “You said they were confused by the different scents on us,” he reminded me.

            “Don’t try that one by yourself,” I warned, because I felt I ought to. It gave me an idea, though. “Maybe we could find some kind of scent that they can’t get past,” I suggested, mind racing. “Some kind of herb—“

            I let him go, intent on going to the house’s library, but he pulled me back into his arms. “Hold on,” he insisted. I wondered if he was going to try to get more answers out of me about the werewolves’ reaction tonight—I was tipping my hand more and more on this subject, but then again it wasn’t a trivial matter. He needed to have some understanding of what was beyond his abilities and what wasn’t, to be safe.

            But instead he just smirked at me. “My small talk wasn’t _that_ bad,” he tried to tell me. Maybe he just wasn’t ready to let me go yet.

            “They couldn’t understand it anyway,” I revealed to him, and he looked appropriately surprised, then peeved. “Sorry, I was just stalling for time. They’ll probably have a vague memory of meeting us, but that’s all.”

            “Well, that’s okay,” he decided after a moment. “Because my small talk s—ked. I _hope_ they don’t remember that.”

            “Or the part where you _claimed_ we had an open relationship,” I recalled pointedly.

            “I know, but come on!” he replied. “You wouldn’t let me have sex with a werewolf babe if I got the chance?”

            “Isn’t that bestiality?” Elena asked tartly, appearing from upstairs.

            “Hey, you’re a necrophiliac, so don’t judge,” Damon shot back.

            “Is Stefan home?” I asked her, not wanting him to be out when the werewolves were.

            “He’s in the shower,” Elena replied with a frown, sensing the tension in the room. “What’s wrong?”

            “Let’s go look in the library,” I suggested to her, leaving Damon to explain the evening’s adventure to his brother however he chose. “I’m looking for a book on herbology…”

 

_Part III_

            “Maybe we should’ve gotten a ride with Matt.”

            “Yeah, that wouldn’t have been awkward at all.”

            Elena conceded that point, though sadly. “I used to be _best friends_ with him,” she sighed as she hiked along the edge of the road, “and now I barely speak to him.”

            “I thought you were best friends with Bonnie,” I observed. “Or Caroline.” There was an unexpected tinge of snideness in my tone and Elena stared at me. “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I was just thinking maybe getting a ride wouldn’t have been a bad idea.” I indicated my exasperation at myself for not encouraging us to take that opportunity when it was presented earlier.

            Elena smiled a little in understanding. It wasn’t often she saw me second-guess myself—not that she was gloating, it just made me seem a little more relatable. A little more human. “It’s a nice night,” she pointed out, opening her arms to encompass the crisp evening air and pale moonlight.

            “Maybe we should call one of the boys,” I suggested dubiously.

            “No,” she declared grandly. “It’s not far to walk. We can get home on our own.”

            Her ‘girl power’ vibe was not infectious. “They’ll be mad when they find out we walked,” I reminded her.

            “I love Stefan,” she announced to the night, “but sometimes he can be overprotective. They treat us like we’re made of china, ready to break at any moment.”

            I appreciated that she included me in this, even though Damon was not normally overprotective of _me_. “Well, comparatively…”

            “We can walk,” she determined. Then she quickly asked, “Are you okay walking?”

            “I’m okay,” I assured her. “It’s not the walking I mind so much as the insects.” I slapped the side of my neck in annoyance.

            “Yeah, they are bad, aren’t they?” Elena agreed, swatting at another one.

            “So tell me about you and Matt,” I suggested after a moment. “I mean, were you _really_ best friends, or more like, my best _guy_ friend?”

            Uncertainty flickered across her face. “Well, I guess, maybe, Matt and I—“ She stopped in her tracks and grabbed my arm, staring straight ahead. Slowly I turned to look in the same direction, knowing what I would find.

            The creature stood in the middle of the road in front of us, maybe a dozen yards away, silhouetted in the moonlight. From this distance there _was_ something doglike about the figure—more doglike than I generally found the werewolves—and my heart began to pound a little faster.

            I put my hand over Elena’s on my arm. “Stay calm,” I advised, ridiculously. “It’s not looking for us.”

            “Then why does it always _find_ us?” she hissed back.

            I risked a glance behind us. “It’s farther to go back into town,” I noted.

            “You’re saying we should go _forward_?!”

            “I’m okay with standing right here for the time being,” I admitted.

            We didn’t move for a few moments. Neither did the creature. “We can’t call the boys,” Elena stated.

            “No,” I agreed. We couldn’t bring one of them within sensing distance of the werewolf.

            “We could call someone else,” Elena proposed. “Bonnie, Matt, Jenna—“

            “A car could come along at any moment and scare it off,” I pointed out. We both went silent, as though straining to hear the sound of an approaching motor. There was none.

            Elena began to reach for her phone. “I’m gonna call—“ She froze as the creature padded forward a few feet, its paws silent on the roadway.

            “Let it see we aren’t of interest to it,” I submitted.

            “How close will it need to get to tell that?” she whispered.

            “I believe our options are somewhat limited,” I remarked, “so perhaps staying uninteresting is the best strategy.”

            The werewolf drew closer, slow, hesitant. It came forward a few steps, then turned back one or two. It shook its head as if equally bothered by the insects we had momentarily forgotten about. “Why’s it doing that?” Elena wanted to know. “Why doesn’t it just go away?”

            The creature started to raise up on its hind legs, as if it were preparing to jump over something. Its front paws pushed off the ground, then dropped back down, then raised up again, like a horse rearing. Elena didn’t bother asking me anything this time, she just clutched my arm tighter.

            Finally it stood on its back legs, more easily than a dog could, and its front paw swung up suddenly and swiped at its own face, drawing blood. Elena gasped and the creature opened its muzzle to howl in pain—but only a low whine escaped. I never took my eyes off it.

            “That’s not _right_ ,” Elena murmured as the werewolf sliced itself with its other paw. “Has it—can it go crazy?”

            Dropping to all fours, the creature stared straight at us, uttered a low whine, and charged. I knocked Elena into the ditch and threw myself after her as the creature reared up above us, a howl trapped in its throat, coming out only as a raspy hiss. I put my arm around Elena to keep her still as the werewolf continued to tear at its own flesh, cutting bloody ribbons in its chest and belly and arms, the claws penetrating ever deeper, doing ever more damage.

            After a moment I noticed Elena struggling under my arm. “We have to run,” she insisted frantically. “We have to run while it’s—“

            “No,” I told her firmly.

            She couldn’t budge my arm. “You’re so strong,” she said suddenly. I turned my gaze on her, irritated by the distraction she caused me, and she drew in a sharp breath. “Daisy—“

            I didn’t have time to deal with her. The creature fell or leaped in our direction and I yanked Elena up, dragging her out of its reach. It writhed on the grass, blood spurting from a puncture to its throat that could be fatal.

            But werewolves had amazing regenerative powers. Already some of the shallower cuts were healing. Left alone it would surely survive. And that was not my intention. I pulled a silver bracelet off my wrist and scrambled to its neck, neatly avoiding the still-twitching claws. I heard Elena call my name but couldn’t spare her any attention. With a flick of my wrist I lodged the bracelet in the neck wound, the silver reacting violently to burn the flesh it touched and prevent it from healing. It was the same trick that had worked once before.

            Then I looked up and saw Elena crashing through the woods away from me, heading who knows where, and I had to run to catch up with her. “Elena, wait!”

            She turned to look back at me, stumbled, and fell in a tangle of bushes. I reached down to help her. “Don’t touch me!” she insisted. “Don’t—how could you—“ She stopped struggling at least and instead stared up at me, her eyes accusatory. “What are you?”

            I was not prepared to answer that question. Nor was I prepared for her to realize it could be asked.

            Elena blinked suddenly, putting a hand to her head. “What hap—I don’t—“

            “I think you hit your head when you fell,” I suggested, kneeling to help untangle her clothes from the bush.

            “When I fell,” she repeated dully. Then her eyes snapped clear. “The werewolf! How did—“

            Damon suddenly dropped to the ground beside us, not doing either of our hearts any good. “So there’s a dead naked girl back there with a silver bracelet stuffed in her neck,” he observed. “Have you two been terrorizing the countryside again?”

            “I guess it _has_ been kind of exciting,” Elena allowed, letting Damon help her up. “We handled it, though.” She seemed sincere and Damon swiveled to look at me, one eyebrow raised. “It wasn’t even after us,” Elena went on calmly. “It just went crazy and started scratching itself.”

            “Thanks for the news report, Prozac Nation,” Damon quipped, still not believing her casual attitude.

            I grabbed his arm and pulled him aside. “I need you to compel Elena,” I told him in a low voice, nodding towards her vervain pendant concealed in my hand.

            “What should she forget?” he asked, business-like.

            “Anything unusual I might have done.”

            His eyebrows went up again. “Daisy, we need to have a talk,” Elena called over before he could respond. She gave me a significant look and I gave Damon one.

            “Can’t you do this?” he probed curiously. I gave him an ambiguous look in response. Ambiguous looks were a great way to convey nothing while concealing the fact that I was exhausted. He gave in. “Elena,” Damon said, turning around. He caught her arm to hold her in place and stared into her eyes. “Anything you saw Daisy do tonight, you will force it to make sense in your mind as something an ordinary human could have done. Do you understand?”

            “I understand,” Elena repeated mechanically.

            “And you’ll forget any suspicions or questions you had about her,” Damon ordered. “But, you’ll remember an erotic dream you had about Daisy once, that makes you really embarrassed but also turned on.” I came up behind Elena and dropped her pendant around her neck, too late to prevent Damon’s little fantasy from taking hold. He smirked unapologetically.

            Elena staggered slightly as she came back to her senses and Damon supported her with unnecessary thoroughness. She glared briefly and brushed his hands away.

            “You seem a little woozy,” he observed. “Did you hit your head?”

            “No, I’m okay,” she insisted. She glanced at me and blushed suddenly, and I rolled my eyes at Damon’s antics. “So,” she went on, clearing her throat, “did you say there’s now a dead body on the side of the road?” She was calm and clear-eyed, which Damon found unsettling, although I certainly appreciated it.

            “Mackenzie Lockwood,” Damon confirmed. “You should’ve let me sleep with her before it was too late,” he told me.

            I didn’t have the energy to respond to that. “We need to—“ I felt unsteady and reach out to grab a nearby tree. Damon caught me instead.

            “We need to go home,” he decided authoritatively, leading me and Elena back towards the road.

            I shook my head. “We have to clean up—“

            “I know how to clean up a body,” Damon replied, as though that ought to be obvious. He lowered his voice somewhat, speaking only to me. “Let me handle it.”

            I nodded reluctantly. I didn’t mean to be controlling, or to doubt Damon’s abilities. I just wasn’t used to feeling so unfocused. He put me and Elena in the back seat of his car and I closed my eyes, ignoring whatever else he was doing outside.

            Elena took my hand. “Don’t worry, Daisy, it’s going to work out fine,” she comforted me, and I smiled a bit ironically, conserving my strength by merely nodding. She rolled the window down. “Do you need any help?” she offered Damon blithely.

            “No, you just stay in the car,” he assured her, “because you are freaking me out.” She shrugged in confusion.

            Finally Damon got back in the car and started it up. “Could you both lie down in the back?” he requested, pulling onto the highway. “It’ll look weird if I’m chauffeuring you through town.”

            “Oh, sure.” Elena immediately began arranging us so we could both lie down. I opened my eyes briefly and saw Damon watching us in the rear view mirror. Or should I say, perving on us. Because no one ever got pulled over for _chauffeuring_. If it didn’t bother Elena, though, it didn’t bother me.

            Damon also got the fun of helping us _both_ inside the house from the car, though I could tell he was genuinely worried about me. I tried to walk under my own power to the couch in the living room but I didn’t fool him.

            “A werewolf?” Stefan repeated in alarm when Elena tried to explain what had happened to him. “Where is it now?”

            “In the trunk,” Damon replied. “Thought I’d toss it in the incinerator at the junkyard later—it’s got a scrubber.”

            “Good idea,” I agreed, though it came out more as a mutter as I leaned against him.

            Stefan gave me an odd look. “Are you okay?” he asked, including both myself and Elena in his question.

            “We’re fine,” Elena assured him fondly, taking his hand. She might have been gently chastising him for worrying about us merely crossing a quiet street. “We’re both just a little worn out.”

            “What happened?” This Stefan reluctantly directed at his brother, who was the only person acting normally.

            Damon adjusted his arm around me so I could lie down more. I didn’t want to give in, but it felt better that way. “It was over by the time I got there,” he admitted to Stefan. “It was Mackenzie Lockwood. She was cut to ribbons, blood everywhere.”

            “The werewolf just went crazy,” Elena stated calmly. “She was cutting herself with her claws. And then she cut her own throat.”

            “Mmm… Daisy?” Stefan questioned, glancing at me.

            He was hoping for an answer that made more sense to him, or that was at least delivered _knowing_ it made no sense. But I was too tired to offer either. “Yeah. That’s it.”

            Stefan blinked at me, then back at Elena. “Did you give them anything?” he asked Damon suspiciously.

            “Yeah, we were out doing ‘shrooms and hallucinated a werewolf attack,” Damon snarked, rolling his eyes. “The body in the trunk is really a bunny I brought back for you to munch on.”

            “I was kind of _hoping_ you’d given them something,” Stefan confessed, checking Elena’s pulse.

            “I think they’re in shock,” Damon offered, sounding halfway serious. “It looked like something I would’ve done on a creative night,” he added, to give Stefan a better picture of the carnage.

            “Daisy was so brave,” Elena recalled. “She ran up and shoved her bracelet in the werewolf’s throat so it wouldn’t heal. I should’ve thought of that.”

            “I’d prefer you stay away from werewolves, alive or dead,” Stefan replied carefully. He clearly didn’t think she was in her right mind at the moment. “Why did it approach them?” He again resorted to asking Damon for his opinion, since clearly the two witnesses were not being helpful.

            “I’m not a werewolf psychologist,” was Damon’s equally unhelpful reply.

            “Take some blood,” I mumbled, poking him.

            “From the body? Okay,” he agreed.

            “You think she might have been sick?” Stefan wanted to know.

            “We’re not the only ones who’d like to see them gone,” Damon pointed out when I didn’t answer. “Maybe someone’s working on a little bug to give them. Like werewolf rabies.”

            “That would explain its odd behavior,” Stefan nodded slowly. Though not mine and Elena’s.

            “Maybe we were just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Elena suggested sagely, and the boys stared at her.

            “Oh,” Stefan said suddenly, his expression turning to quiet horror. He reached out to touch the collar of Elena’s button-down. “You’re wearing my shirt.”

            “I like it,” she told him, positively upbeat. “It smells like you.”

            “Well, s—t,” commented Damon, who understood why Stefan looked so stricken. “I’m wearing all Daisy’s clothes from now on.”

            “What’s wrong?” asked Elena as Stefan stood and turned his back to her.

            “Walking around in his shirt you must’ve smelled like werewolf bait,” Damon pointed out to her tactlessly, when Stefan didn’t reply. “I suppose you could’ve hung a raw steak around your neck, too. That might’ve been worse.”

            “Oh, dear,” Elena understated. “Stefan, you can’t blame yourself—“ But he already was.

            Damon stood, drawing me up with him. “Well, now that the guilt train has arrived, I better leave the station,” he announced. “I got a body to smoke. Later.”

            I slumped tiredly in the front seat of the car while he drew the requested blood from Mackenzie’s body for my study later. Then he pulled the car back out of the garage and headed for the junkyard. “Elena was finally crying when I came back through,” he reported. “That’s good, right? Getting back to normal behavior.” He reached over and touched my cheek lightly. “How about you? Are you still in shock?” His question was partly sarcastic, partly serious—so few people could pull off that combination.

            “I’m just tired,” I tried. He wasn’t really buying it, though.

            I wasn’t either. I felt worse and worse as we reached the junkyard but I tried to conceal it; Damon needed to focus on disposing of the body in the incinerator, not worrying about me. The other werewolves would detect the remains and possibly be led back to us if he overlooked anything. But my head pounded, I felt sick to my stomach, and a cold sweat broke across my skin—Damon could hardly fail to notice when he got back in the car.

            “Daisy. Daisy, did you get hurt?” he asked me, calm but urgent. He didn’t wait for my reply but started patting me down anyway.

            “No,” I ground out, afraid I was going to throw up if I opened my mouth too much.

            “We’re going back to the apartment now,” he decided, pulling out onto the road. “You can get some sleep there.”

            I reached a hand out to him, trying to make him do what I wanted without him understanding it. “No. Downtown.”

            He looked at me and started to turn the car around even as he asked, “Why downtown? Where?”

            “Just… downtown,” I mumbled, my need to not give anything away almost as strong as my need to get there. “Lots of bars.”

            “You want a drink?” he asked incredulously. He didn’t really believe that, though, fortunately. “Okay, downtown…” He was silent for a few more minutes, constantly turning from me to the road and back. At last we hit Mystic Falls’s meager downtown, with minor crowds pulling into and out of restaurants and bars. He pulled into a parking lot. “You want to go anywhere in particular?”

            “Here is fine,” I agreed quickly.

            “Just stop and wait?”

            “Mm-hmm.”

            Damon killed the engine and managed to sit quietly for all of thirty seconds. Then he threw himself out of the car and zipped around to my side, yanking open the door. I made a whine of protest as he pulled me out—not very dignified, no, but I just wanted to sit quietly and focus on _not_ passing out, not be dragged to my feet.

            “Come on, it’s okay,” he told me, his tone somewhere between soothing and patronizing. It was hard for Damon to go all the way to soothing, especially when he was genuinely worried. “We’re just gonna lay down in back.”

            Laying down was good. Laying down took less energy than sitting up.

            “What’re you—Stop,” I told him in annoyance, slapping weakly at his hands as he unbuttoned my shirt.

            “In case someone comes over,” he explained. “It’s a cover story—we’re making out.” I shivered suddenly and he draped his jacket around me, pulling me close. His body didn’t offer much warmth, but I understood the sentiment.

            For a while I felt awful—nauseous, dizzy, alternating between sweating and shivering, black spots dancing before my eyes when I dared to open them. I clutched the front of Damon’s shirt with one hand, leaving it clammy and wrinkled. I was desperate not to lose consciousness—I just couldn’t let go, leaving myself so vulnerable.

            “Go to sleep, baby,” Damon whispered in my ear, rubbing my tensed muscles. “I’ll take care of you, I promise.” He sounded so sweet I wanted to cry—which freaked him out even more than he already was, though he struggled mightily to hide it.

            I didn’t _actually_ cry. And gradually I felt better, until it was just the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me. I knew I would be okay now, though. Not that I had really feared for my life at any point, but it was a huge relief to realize that the worst was over.

            Damon felt me relax against him. “Better?” I nodded. “Time to go home?” I nodded again. “Okay.” He kissed my forehead and eased himself away from me; I missed his solid presence holding me steady. As the car rumbled to life under me, though, I finally allowed myself to give in and fall asleep.

 

            I woke in the dark, feeling ravenous and stale, like I’d gone too long without showering. I was in Damon’s bed at his apartment and he’d dressed me in a set of my flannel pajamas. I shivered a little and rolled over, debating whether I should get up and look for food. I didn’t think I’d fall back asleep anytime soon.

            A shadow crossed the sliver of light under the door and Damon poked his head in. “Are you awake?” he asked softly. He must’ve been listening for any movement I made.

            “Yes,” I replied, then cleared my throat. It was dry and scratchy. Damon blinked away then back to kneel at the side of the bed, pressing a straw against my lips and I slurped up the orange juice gratefully.

            “How do you feel?” he asked, pressing the back of his fingers to my forehead and cheek.

            “Starving,” I admitted.

            “I’ll bring you something to eat,” he promised, leaving the orange juice in my custody and flashing from the room. He was back with a bowl and spoon so fast I briefly wondered if I’d fallen asleep in the interim.

            “Do you have super microwave powers?” I asked lightly, taking the dish of rice and beans that was still warm.

            “I made it a while ago,” he answered without humor, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Uh-oh. Damon Salvatore without humor, even the snarky kind, was not a good sign. I scarfed the rice and beans quickly.

            “What time is it?” I asked, when the unnerving silence coupled with his unblinking scrutiny started to bother me.

            “It’s about five AM,” Damon told me. “We’re meeting Stefan and Elena at the Grill at nine for breakfast.”

            “Show of normalcy, huh?” I guessed. “How are they doing?”

            He shrugged a little, which didn’t seem positive. “Elena offered to take off her necklace so Stefan could make her forget she’d ever seen anything,” he reported, and I winced in sympathy. “And he’s still feeling guilty about the shirt, so… I’d say _this_ was the fun part of town at the moment.” And given that he said this with as dark a tone as possible—that _still_ wasn’t that much fun.

            My spoon hit the bottom of the bowl, surprising me. I could’ve eaten a bucket more, but the way Damon was watching me, with his arms crossed defensively over his chest, told me that his patience would soon be at an end.

            “More?” he offered anyway.

            I set the bowl aside. “I’m okay for the moment.”

            “Good. Because I’d like to know what I should do the next time you get ‘tired,’ because you scared the s—t out of me tonight.”

            It was hard not to react unhelpfully to the anger in his tone, but I knew it was justified. “You should take me someplace public,” I informed him vaguely, “and just wait with me for a while.”

            “Public,” he repeated. “Crowded? As in, lots of people?”

            “That would be fine,” I replied noncommittally.

            “But not public as in, the empty countryside,” he guessed.

            “Well, I think you need people for it to be public.”

            “G-------t, Daisy,” he hissed and I dropped my gaze to my lap. His hand suddenly came into view, gripping my own. “I just want to help you.”

            I looked up and met his eyes, blazing blue in the dim light from the hallway. “I know,” I sighed. “People around would be good,” I added, forcing the words out. It was hard to change my lifelong habit of keeping as much as possible to myself.

            He nodded in understanding, then moved further onto the bed to be closer to me, angling himself so he could still see my face. “What did you have me compel Elena to forget?” he asked, but his tone was somewhat lighter now.

            “Nothing much. _Really_ ,” I assured him. “Just a little extra strength, and—maybe the way I threw the bracelet looked strange.”

            His eyebrows went up. “You _threw_ the bracelet at Mackenzie and lodged it in her neck?” He sounded impressed. “I’m not playing Frisbee with you anymore. I don’t want to be decapitated.” The humor was back, finally.

            “Well, there was already a gash in her neck,” I clarified. Idly he brushed some hair out of my face. “And it was a werewolf when I did it, with flailing claws. I wasn’t getting close to that.” I frowned. “I should’ve had you get rid of more,” I decided. “I didn’t realize it would upset her so much.” My fists clenched in anger—at myself. “I didn’t think it through enough.”

            His fingers threaded through mine, cool and soothing, relaxing my hands. “So what happened?”

            “What she said, really,” I assured him. “The werewolf showed up and started clawing itself. When I saw the neck wound I took the opportunity to finish her off.”

            “It just came upon you two randomly,” he said, his tone one of obvious disbelief. “And started attacking itself for no reason.” He gave me a hard look when I didn’t respond. “I don’t think it was Stefan’s shirt. Good cover, though, the guilt gnawing at his soul will keep him from asking the right questions.” I raised an eyebrow at his conclusion. “But I’d like to know why you put Elena in danger, just to kill a werewolf.”

            “ _Just_ to kill a werewolf?” I repeated.

            “I’m thinking you could have done it an easier way,” Damon went on speculatively, “that didn’t involve freaking me out, or Elena. But that might be suspicious,” he realized slowly. I watched him with interest. “Maybe you needed a witness. Someone who’s in on the secret but wouldn’t try to fight back. That makes it less suspicious than simply disintegrating the werewolf. And watching one cut itself to shreds— _making_ it cut itself to shreds—is a h—l of a lot more fun,” he added with a dark smirk.

            “Why, you’d give Miss Cleo a run for her money,” I said dryly. I was quite impressed, however.

            “Elena. In danger,” he prompted.

            “Are you going to admit out loud that you care what happens to her?” I teased in return.

            “Mmm,” he replied negatively. “I would not want Elena to get eaten by a werewolf,” he finally stated, conceding little.

            “She was perfectly safe,” I assured him.

            “’Perfectly’ is such an overused word,” he observed.

            I smiled at him. “She was safe. Really. _I_ would’ve gotten eaten by the werewolf before Elena did.”

            His arm tightened around me. “Don’t even go down the noble self-sacrifice route,” he said, a bit sharply. “If you got killed saving Elena from a werewolf I would hate her for at _least_ two centuries.”

            “Two centuries, huh?” I grinned. I noted that Katherine had only gotten a century and a half of devotion; I decided not to mention this aloud, however.

            He wanted to move away from this topic, but the question still gnawed at him. “I’ll bring you some more food,” he tempted. “ _After_ you answer me.”

            I raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, is this an interrogation now?”

            “Baby, if I was interrogating you, you wouldn’t need to ask,” he informed me with a cocky smirk, then his expression became marginally serious again. “Do you want some more food?” he offered.

            “It’s okay,” I allowed. “Ask you question again.”

            “Why did you want a werewolf dead? At your own hands? In such a messy way?” Damon asked, focusing his questions. At my hesitation he added cheekily, “Hypothetically speaking, if you _did_ do that, what might your motivation be?”

            “Peyton could have killed you,” I reminded him.

            Damon shrugged that off. “A few scratches,” he insisted. “You can’t even see them anymore.”

            “I had to help you heal them,” I countered, “and he could have easily taken your head off during the fight.”

            “If he hadn’t gotten _confused_ ,” Damon added pointedly. “So you’re saying you saved my a‑s _twice_ on that one. Doesn’t answer my question.”

            “What would you do if I were injured by a werewolf?” I posed.

            His answer was swift. “I would rip him to—“ Realization dawned. “So you were _mad_ at the werewolves? Because one of them hurt me?” He seemed delighted by this response.

            “Of course I was mad,” I replied cheekily. “You just wouldn’t be the same if I had to paste your head back on.”

            “Can you do that?” he asked with interest. I raised an eyebrow. “So you shredded a werewolf because you were mad one hurt me,” he repeated, relishing the idea.

            “Hypothetically speaking,” I reminded him, “that’s what I would _want_ to do.”

            “I’d want to do it with my bare hands,” he shared.

            “Well, I don’t like to get messy.”

            “I hesitate to point this out,” he went on, “but most people would classify my desire to rip a werewolf apart with my bare hands as symptomatic of being a psychopath.”

            “I’m not really into labels,” I demurred.

            “No kidding. But really,” he decided thoughtfully, “I’m not sure the symbolic value was worth the energy expended. Next time feel free to just disintegrate the werewolf, I’ll still know you care.”

            “Some guys appreciate a tie or cologne,” I said dryly.

            “Hey, is there a way we can keep them from turning back into people when they die?” Damon wanted to know. “Because I think a werewolf head would look cool mounted over the fireplace.”

            “At least you acknowledge a human head would be weird there,” I noted.

            “Well, I didn’t say that.” He was quiet for a minute. “Seriously, though, next time you want to go postal on a werewolf, just feed it a poisoned pie, okay? Because I didn’t like the whole crying and fainting thing.” His expression conveyed worry even if his tone didn’t.

            “I didn’t _cry_ ,” I scoffed, trying to lighten the mood. “Did you have any more questions?”

            “Oh, endless amounts,” he assured me. “But I’m willing to table them if you’re ready to move on to the life-affirming sex,” he added innocently.

            “You were going to bring me some more _food_ ,” I reminded him pointedly.

            “But I’ve been traumatized,” he tried to claim, dragging me back down in the bed. “I need comfort.”

            I pushed at him ineffectually. “And which part, exactly, were you traumatized by?” I demanded.

            His brow furrowed as he tried to think of something plausible but not actually true. “I have to have breakfast with Stefan and Elena in a few hours, and they’ll be all mopey!”

            “Well _poor you_ ,” I responded, deeply sarcastic. “Bring me some more food first, then we’ll talk.”

            “Talking wasn’t what I had in mind…”

 

_Part IV_

_Note: In another fight with werewolves, Damon is badly injured and is taking a long time to heal. Daisy waits by his side, dreaming/daydreaming to pass the time._

 

            I was at a party, a dance. A ball, really. The room was small and stuffy but meant to be grand. The men wore the overly-complicated suits of country gentlemen, the women overwhelming dresses with tiny waists and huge skirts. I saw Damon in the center of the room, dancing with a woman who could only be Katherine. She was lovely, like Elena but with a greater command of her feminine power, and her eyes flashed coldly and her smile was just a little bit cruel. But Damon was the one I was watching. He had the same mischievous blue eyes, the same careless smirk, but overall he was warmer, lighter—best not to make him angry, yes, but he hadn’t yet seen the things that would harden his heart, allow him to do things that would terrify so many.

            Katherine flounced away, to cause trouble somewhere else; I didn’t want her around. It was _my_ dream, and I could have things the way I wanted them. I wanted a full, lush red dress such as no proper lady of the era would have worn, but no heads turned to stare, except perhaps in admiration. And there was the little matter of my skin color—in the South, during the Civil War, someone looking like me wouldn’t have made it onto the steps of the front porch as a guest before being angrily turned away. Indeed the only other black people in the room were slaves or at best servants, hovering around the edges in case a drink was spilled or a lady started to faint. But no one noticed that I didn’t fit in—at least, not in a bad way.

            I was demure, as a lady ought to be. I glanced up, saw Damon looking my way, and modestly dropped my gaze with a little smile. It was enough to bring him across the dance floor.

            “Pardon me, Miss, but I do not believe we’ve been introduced.” He had an accent—light, but distinct. This surprised me, pleasantly. “My name is Damon Salvatore,” he went on.

            I let him take my hand and kiss it. He held it to his lips a bit longer than was seemly, meeting my gaze as he did so—a very bold young man. “Daisy Fortescue,” I answered, finally remembering to speak. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Salvatore.”

            “Please, call me Damon,” he insisted. “All my friends do.”

            “Are we friends, then?” I teased.

            “I very much hope so,” he responded. His smirk was somehow indecent, but mostly I was looking at his eyes, brilliant and blue and saying so many things that his lips couldn’t.

            We danced through the room, the steps formal but familiar. In movies they often looked slightly ridiculous, because the actors had only learned them recently and were focused on making everything look perfect—but in real life, everyone had seen or done the dances many times over their lives and were comfortable enough to occasionally get things wrong, to be out of synch with the tune or turn the wrong way. Most people didn’t care, they were too focused on their partners to pay that much attention—although possibly the catty society mavens lining the walls were noting each mistake, nodding soberly to each other and gossiping about the dancers. I wondered briefly what they would say about me—“The _western_ branch of the Fortescues, hardly any land at all,” they’d sniff perhaps, or “Isn’t _her_ father the one who took to drink after his wife died?” People always talked, but the noise faded into the background, along with the music and the laughter, until it might have been Damon and I alone in the room.

            “Might we step outside for some air, Mr. Salvatore?” I asked, the tight corset constricting my lungs even as I struggled to carry the extra weight of the dress in a graceful fashion.

            “I’m afraid not,” he told me, contrary to every rule of gentlemanly behavior. I stared at him. “I can only step outside with my friends.” He raised an eyebrow leadingly.

            I smiled. “Might we step outside for some air, Damon?” I repeated, using the proper name.

            “Why, certainly, Daisy,” he said blithely, leading me towards the back door.

            “All my friends call me Miss Fortescue,” I corrected him lightly.

            His grin flashed at me before he could stop it. “Then I am afraid we cannot be friends,” he told me, mock-sorrowful, as we crossed the threshold to the back porch. “For I could never bring myself to call you Miss Fortescue.”

            The porch was dark and cool and quiet, the moon and stars clearly visible in a land with no electricity or tall buildings, only the huge old trees to see around. I leaned against the wall of the house, Damon standing far closer to me than he ought, especially with no chaperones around. “Are we at an impasse, sir?” I asked coyly. “For I say my friends call me Miss Fortescue, and yet you seem unable to.”

            “Perhaps I can resolve this dilemma,” he said, leaning close to whisper in my ear. “What do your lovers call you? I would rather use that name.”

            In real life, or even a romance novel, I would have slapped him. Instead I merely smiled up at him innocently. “My lovers call me… Margaret.”

            His smirk faltered for an instant before returning. “Then I shall be the one to call you Daisy.”

            “So I shall know you out of all the others?” I asked.

            His eyes darkened and a cloud seemed to blot out the moon. “I will make sure there _are_ no others.” He leaned down and his lips brushed mine, gentle at first, then more insistent. My arms slid around his neck and his around my waist, and I began to think rather urgently about the best way to get a hoop skirt out of the way without unbalancing myself.

 

            I thought about imagining us in the 1920’s. I would be a flapper in a fringed skirt and feathered headband, and Damon would be a gangster in a pinstriped suit and fedora. He would enjoy that. But somehow the mood didn’t seem quite right—the 1920’s were a time of liberation, and it was easier to be a rogue during a repressive era.

            So I turned back a decade or two. Damon wore an almost modern three-piece suit; but I was still trussed up in a corset as I had been fifty years earlier, only the skirts had a smaller circumference these days. I think he liked the idea of the corset anyway, the feelings of confinement it evoked in his prey. My mind fell to another romance-novel-worthy setup, sad but true: my family was refined but recently in financial difficulty, and he was the wealthy miscreant to whom I was forced by convoluted circumstance to turn for aid. Maybe it was an alternate universe, where vampires were known and accepted, perhaps as the elite of society, like members of an exclusive club. Well, no need to write an entire background story for it.

            I came to his house, trembling, one night, in a desperate bid to save my family. It was unwise for a woman to travel alone after dark, even in a nice neighborhood, and more unwise still for her to visit a man she was not related to, without a chaperone. But I made the trek anyway, fueled by my slight martyr complex, my mother’s guilt trip, and perhaps a tiny bit of pleasant anticipation that I refused to acknowledge.

            He opened the door himself, expecting me, and a smirk took up permanent residence on his face. He was handsome, almost unnaturally so, with eyes that blazed blue in the gaslight. I knew many people were envious of my “arrangement,” but I had a feeling it would be far more complicated than they imagined.

He gave me a long, slow, steady look up and down—lewd, arrogant… possessive? My heart caught in my throat. “Bit late to be selling your wares on the corner—“ he began. I stiffened, thinking he was already calling me a common whore. “—little flower girl,” he added, amused at my discomfort.

            He stepped back, allowing me to enter the house—but I didn’t get very far before he pushed me back against the closed door, one hand braced on the wood behind me. “Miss Fortescue, isn’t it?” he asked with exaggerated formality, given that his face was within inches of mine. I opened my mouth to answer but thought better of trying to speak and nodded instead. His eyes flickered down to my parted lips and I closed them quickly, unconsciously biting the lower one. “I understand you’re to be my new mistress. And I, in turn, will alleviate your family’s financial difficulties.” He leaned down to whisper in my ear, his breath hot on my skin. “Your family owes a lot of money. I hope you’re worth it.”

            “Mr. Salvatore—“ I started to protest, not sure what else I was going to say.

            He pulled back slightly. “Oh, do you speak? That’s disappointing,” he quipped. “I heard you don’t have much experience in this area,” he went on blithely.

            “I do,” I was finally able to answer.

            “Have experience?”

            “ _Speak_ ,” I clarified in a defiant tone, meeting his gaze.

            A grin flashed quickly across his face. “I assume you’ve heard that I have certain…” He gave some thought on what word to use. “… _proclivities_ ,” he finally decided on.

            My defiance vanished. The rumors about the members of this club—note to self: think of cool name for it—ranged from exotic to outright murderous, and I thought of my friends’ gossipy tales of girls who passed through its doors and were never seen again. His grin returned at my expression. “Don’t worry,” he assured me. “You’re an _investment_. I intend to keep you around for a long time.” He pressed in close again suddenly. “That doesn’t mean I won’t _nibble_ on occasion, though,” he hissed in my ear. I closed my eyes and a shiver ran through me, more fear than anticipation. The anticipation was there, though, as he began to brush his lips against the skin of my neck just below my ear. “Unbutton your collar.”

            “Here? In the hall?” I said without thinking, indignant suddenly.

            He chuckled and I could feel it in my chest that was pressed against his. “Would you prefer I have my meal in the kitchen?” When I didn’t move he pulled back and his expression was suddenly hard. “Unbutton your collar,” he repeated, saying each word slowly. I understood the _or else_ at the end of his command.

            With shaking fingers I reached up to the small pearl buttons at my throat and fumbled through undoing them. He waited with rapidly deteriorating restraint, impatiently sniffing the fresh skin revealed. Finally the fabric was loose enough and he pressed his mouth down suddenly, hot and wet on flesh usually kept locked away, and that in itself was nearly overwhelming. Then I felt the sharp sting of his teeth piercing my skin and I realized—I liked it.

 

            The 1950’s. It was sad that almost a century had passed since the Civil War and I still had to pretend I was living in a universe where my skin color didn’t matter, where I could walk down the street with a gaggle of other girls in poodle skirts and saddle shoes and no one thought it was odd if we all didn’t look even more alike.

            A silver Chevy slowed down next to us on the street, the driver giving us an appraising look as we giggled. “Don’t you girls all look tasty today,” Damon purred. I was surprised to realize he looked very much the way he did in modern times—black leather jacket, t-shirt, jeans. Aside from minor details men’s clothing had changed very little in sixty years.

            “See you later,” I told my friends, getting into the car with him. He was older and cool, the kind of boyfriend every girl wanted, even if that wasn’t wise. In his case, of course, it was downright dangerous to long for him—as girls occasionally discovered. It was, as they say, their last mistake. Fortunately I was made of sterner stuff.

            Maybe it was weird to sit here and imagine having sex with Damon in a variety of eras and settings—this time in the back of a silver Chevy on an isolated hill overlooking the town, making jokes about girdles and hair grease. But wasn’t it weirder to imagine having philosophical conversations, or going grocery shopping? Maybe it was all equally weird. I just wanted to be doing _something_ with him, anything, anytime, anyplace, instead of sitting here watching him, feeling inadequate in my help. I just wanted him to know that I was still here, that I wasn’t going to leave him even though he wasn’t exactly attractive or even useful at the moment.

            So we had sex in the back of a silver Chevy on a hill in the 1950’s. And I held him close and tried to make him forget every other girl he’d ever known—Katherine, Elena, even Sally. I wanted to be everything to him, and that realization was dizzying in its terror, and at the same time so powerful—the longing made me vulnerable, yes, but it also gave me direction, focus, that sharpened my powers like a sword’s edge. Our problems seemed meaningless in the face of this revelation, like they would melt away if I willed it so. Maybe this feeling wouldn’t last, maybe it would vanish the moment I opened my eyes, but for now I reveled in it, and so did Damon—his actions were unpredictable to me and I realized I must have actually fallen asleep, my subconscious deciding his part without input from the rest of my mind. It was a curious but not unpleasant sensation, and I let it overwhelm me.

 

            I had one more dream about Damon, and this was a true dream that unfolded without my input while I was asleep one night.

            I don’t know what the era was—vaguely modern yet slightly outdated, the 1970’s perhaps. I was in my home in the woods and I was terrified. It was after dark and someone, something, was in the house—something evil and predatory. I had awakened to my parents’ screams, seen them lying slaughtered and bloody in their bed. Then my younger brother’s cry of horror, cut off suddenly, leaving the house as silent as a grave. His room was empty, the blankets in disarray. I wasn’t sure I wanted to find him.

            Then I heard the footsteps. Steady. Relentless. Confident. I ran from room to room, now tripping over furniture, now beating at the dead phone, now blanking as I stared at the block of knives in the kitchen, knowing I should grab one but not truly understanding what I would do with it.

            The footsteps sped up, almost keeping pace with my heart. The dread was so oppressive it was almost a relief when he leaped out at me, slamming me against the wall. Adrenaline bloomed bright before my eyes, my heartbeat spiking in my chest. I didn’t even feel the pain of his teeth sinking into my flesh, the unnatural suction as my blood flowed out of my body and into his. Maybe I was screaming, or maybe I was just opening my mouth and squeaking hoarsely, the screams lodged in my throat.

            Then he pulled back. And that didn’t seem right. He was supposed to kill me, to end my brief life and all its petty concerns, like he had with the rest of my family.

            His mouth raised to my ear and his breath was hot with the warmth of my swallowed blood. “I’ll come back for you later,” he said, in a rasp almost like a caress. “Now I know what you taste like.”

            And then he vanished, leaving me alone in the dark, cold house, the only sound my own ragged breathing. And somehow, I did not feel relief.

 

            I smoothed his hair back with one hand, anxious to touch him but trying not to distract him from the cup of blood he was slurping down. He needed to get his strength back.

            Fatigue forced an unnatural stillness on him but his eyes darted everywhere, around the room, over my face, the wrist hovering only inches away from his mouth. I knew he preferred his blood warm and fresh, but I worried that the vampiric transformation might be too much for him at the moment—he could drink his blood from a straw right now. It was a smothering kind of concern I felt—he would do what was good for him, whether he liked it or not.

            He pulled away from the straw as it began to gurgle and I set the cup aside. His skin was still too cool to the touch and I tucked the blankets up around him fretfully. He gave a wan smirk.

            “You were in my dreams,” he murmured, catching my hand in his.

            I smiled down at him. “What was I doing?”

            “Having sex, mostly,” he replied, which seemed typical for him. Then he frowned and added, “Sometimes with _way_ too much setup. I need to stop reading Edwardian romances.”

            “I didn’t realize you read _any_ ,” I teased gently.

            “I sometimes leaf through your disturbing collection,” he rejoined, more slowly than usual, “when I have trouble falling asleep. I was a roguish vampire aristocrat,” he went on cheekily, “and you were the impoverished virgin traded to me in exchange for paying your family’s debts.” My hands stilled in his and I stared at him. “Read that one already, huh?” he guessed. “Might there be some more blood forthcoming?”

            “Um, of course,” I replied, slightly flustered by his dream description. I poured some more blood from the grisly pitcher beside the bed and handed him the cup. “Did you have any other dreams about me?” I questioned.

            “Well, there was one set in the ‘50’s that was especially nice,” he replied, his innocent tone suggesting it was even sexier than the Edwardian one. “Only, it was weird, I didn’t ever have that kind of car back then…”

            I leaned forward intently. “Was there a really creepy one where you killed my whole family and then bit me and said you’d come back for me?”

            A slow grin spread across his face. “I thought it was kind of romantic,” he countered, with all sincerity. I sat back, unsure what to make of this development. “I imagined stalking you years later, at a girls’ boarding school where everyone was horrible, and you didn’t mind me killing a few people and taking you on the run with me.”

            “Yes, you _would_ think that was romantic,” I agreed dryly.

            “I know what you taste like,” he murmured, his eyes locked with mine, and I smiled suddenly, a rush of indescribable feeling washing over me. The sensation was familiar, though, and powerful.

            “I love you,” I told him, leaning down to kiss his rough lips. He would need more fluids to get back into shape, but I was confident it would happen soon.

            “So maybe _you’re_ the one who’s been reading too many Edwardian romances,” he charged when I pulled back.

            “I wish I could say you’ve been watching too many horror movies,” I countered, “but I feel like that whole scenario was entirely your own creation.”

            “Rather tame, really,” he sniffed. “Not my best work.”


End file.
